Dawn found Valeria Nightfall in the training yard, moving through forms that looked more like a dance than combat. Twenty recruits lay scattered around her, groaning.
"Speed over strength," she instructed, helping one to his feet. "The gods' champions wear heavy armor because they think it makes them invulnerable. Prove them wrong."
A recruit spat blood. "Easy for you to say. You were one of them once."
The temperature seemed to drop. Valeria's movements blurred, and suddenly she held the boy by his throat. "Yes. I was. Would you like to know why I left?" Her voice carried ancient pain. "Because I watched them sacrifice a hundred children to 'purify' a valley. When I questioned it, they called it divine will." She released him. "So yes, I know their ways. That's why I know how to kill them."
Across the camp, Brother Ruuk's laughter echoed from his sparring circle. The Mad Monk fought five veterans at once, his style a violent blend of battlefield brawling and corrupted divine magic.
"Come on!" he roared, void-marks pulsing with dark energy. "Is that how you'll face the gods' armies? With tepid strikes and careful steps?" He caught a sword bare-handed, black energy crackling around his fingers. "They called me heretic, blasphemer, oath-breaker—and you know what? They were right!"
He swept his opponents' legs, still laughing. "But better a laughing heretic than a weeping slave. The gods demand perfection? I'll show them beautiful chaos!"
Near the fortress walls, Thrain worked alone. The northern warrior's legendary shield bore new marks—tests from aspiring champions who thought they could break it.
"Your shield," a young soldier dared to approach. "They say it's unbreakable."
Thrain continued his maintenance, checking each rune etched in the black metal. His response, when it came, was quiet but carried clearly:
"Not unbreakable. Unbroken. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
Thrain looked up, eyes like frozen fjords. "Unbreakable means it cannot be harmed. Unbroken means it has endured every harm and still stands. Like our will. Like our purpose. Like Kael himself."
Their true nature revealed itself in a tavern in newly conquered Thornhaven. Victory celebrations filled the air with smoke and laughter until a drunk local stumbled toward the soldiers' table, eyes red with grief and rage.
"You bastards..." his voice cracked with pain. "You killed my son."
The laughter died. Young soldiers tensed, hands moving to weapons. The drunk spat at their feet.
"You think you're heroes? You're butchers."
One of the younger soldiers, barely grown into his void-marks, clenched his fists. "Say that again."
The drunk man's glare carried generations of hatred. "Murderers."
The tension crystallized like frost on a blade. The soldiers started to rise, ready to answer grief with violence—when a single word cut through the air like steel through silk:
"Enough."
Captain Garron's massive form separated from the shadows. He didn't draw his weapon. He didn't raise his voice. He simply looked at his soldiers.
"Stand down."
They hesitated, pride warring with discipline.
"That's an order."
Slowly, grudgingly, they lowered their hands. The drunk man swayed, somehow looking both terrified and defiant as Garron turned to face him.
Then the captain did something that shocked everyone—he knelt. The leader of Kael's elite guard, a warrior who had broken divine armies, lowered himself before a grieving father.
"We took your son from you," Garron's voice carried weight beyond mere sound. "And for that, I am sorry."
The silence that followed felt holy in its intensity. The drunk man stared, hands shaking, before turning to stumble away in tears.
Once he was gone, the young soldier who'd wanted to fight spoke through gritted teeth: "Why did you let him insult us?"
Garron's gaze could have cut stone. "Because if we fight every man who grieves, we will be at war forever." His voice softened slightly. "We are conquerors. But that does not mean we must be monsters."
The lesson settled over them like a heavy cloak. This was why they were chosen—not just for their skill with blade and void-magic, but for their understanding of power's price. They were Kael's elite, yes, but that position demanded more than mere strength.
It demanded wisdom.
Later that night, Valeria found Garron on the battlements. "The men are talking about what happened," she said quietly.
"Good." Garron watched the stars wheel overhead. "Let them talk. Let them understand."
"That we're not just killers?"
"That we're building something greater than an empire of corpses." His scarred hands gripped the stone. "Kael shows us how to break chains. We must show them how to live once they're broken."
Below them, in the tavern, soldiers raised their glasses in toast to fallen foes and fallen friends alike. The Black Vanguard kept their vigil, knowing that true strength lay not just in the ability to take life...
But in knowing when to honor it.